Page 24 of Lighting the Lamp
“Momma, we didn’t mean—” I say, but she cuts me off before I can give her an excuse.
“I know, baby. I know. But I’m your mother; it’s in my DNA to worry about you boys every minute of every day. Now, how about you try telling me the truth?”
“I’m fine,” I try again, but it’s even weaker this time, brittle around the edges. She doesn’t say anything right away, and that’s worse.
“You are not,” she says, voice low but firm. “I can hear it. You sound like you’re trying not to scare me, which tells me everything I need to know.”
I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out because she’s right. My chest is tight, and my legs won’t stop twitching beneath the blanket. My heart is racing again, even though the beeping on the monitor insists it’s fine.
“I just didn’t want to worry you.”
“Well, too late for that.” She sighs, the sound only a mom can make. It’s disappointment, love, and worry all rolled into one breath. “So don’t waste time pretending.”
“They haven’t found anything definitive. Just… monitoring, more scans tomorrow. Coach already benched me. I’m on the injured reserve until the playoffs.”
She breathes through her nose like she’s trying to keep from cussing or crying. “That damn coach needs to learn to leave my boys alone. First Cole, then the coaching crap with Cooper, and now you. If I thought smacking some sense into him would help, I’d drive up there myself and do it.”
I huff something that might’ve been a laugh, but only air and ache drag past my ribs. It doesn’t sound human. Doesn’t feel like it either.
“But I know it wouldn’t change a thing,” she says softly, like the words cost her something. “He’d still act like this is all your fault. This has nothing to do with the fact that Michele did what was best for her and not his image.”
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, grounding myself in the pain. I don’t trust my voice, so I don’t use it. But Momma doesn’t say anything else. She waits before gently, likeshe’s testing the weight of it, asks, “Do you think putting you on the injured reserve list was the right call?”
My chest tightens; the question lands in the middle of it like a puck to the sternum. I swallow around the lump clawing its way up my throat and turn my head, not to answer, just to hide. Outside the window, cars blur by in streaks of red and gold. A mom wrangles her toddler into a booster seat. A guy in a tie sips coffee at a stoplight. Life uninterrupted, like nothing cracked open this week and my entire world isn’t teetering on the edge of something I can’t name.
“I’m not sure,” I say, barely above a whisper, and that’s probably the truest thing I’ve said since waking up in this bed.
I expect her to push and tell me what she thinks, but she doesn’t. “Okay, we’ll figure it out. Now, are you alone?”
I glance toward the door and notice the crack Alise left in the door. She’s quietly whispering something to Cooper. As if she could feel my eyes on her, she turns, a soft smile spreading across her face as she winks before turning back to my brother. That one simple gesture makes everything else in the room stop spinning. The way she looks at me anchors something inside me I didn’t know was floating loose.
“No, Alise and Cooper are still here.” I press the phone tighter to my ear. “She’s gonna drive me home once I’m discharged. Coach said I could help with the peewee team while I’m off the ice.”
There’s a pause, but when Mom speaks again, her voice has shifted to something softer, almost smiling. “Are you up for coaching?”
“Yeah. The doctor said no strenuous activity for a while, but I can handle a clipboard and bossing around some kids.” I nod instinctively, then realize she can’t see me.
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart.” Her warmth threads through the line, and I swear I can feel it sink into my skin. “Maybe you could work with Darius’s team.”
My lips twitch into something that could almost be mistaken for warmth if you weren’t looking too closely, but it doesn’t reach my eyes.
Darius and Ford. I see them both in a flash: Darius, with his too-big Timberwolves hoodie and permanent scowl whenever anyone touches his gear. Ford, trailing behind me in the locker room, trying to mimic my swagger, talking big like he’s not just a kid who’s had to grow up way too fast. Then the images shift. Darius in the stands, wide-eyed and frozen as I drop on the ice. Then Ford screaming for someone to help. My breath catches like I’ve swallowed a stone. My stomach rolls, bitter and hot. What if they see that? What if I become that memory? The one that sticks to the inside of their heads and won’t come out. The one they carry around, tight in their chest, the way I still carry the sound of rocks falling as our Dad disappeared toward the forest floor. What if all they remember is me falling?
“What if it happens again?” I blurt out, voice barely a whisper. “What if I’m on the ice with a bunch of kids and my heart just gives out? What if I scare the hell out of Darius or Ford? What if I?—”
“Stop,” she says gently but firmly. “Don’t go there.”
My pulse has already picked up, brain racing ahead as images of what could happen run through my mind like a movie. “I can’t do that to them. I can’t be the reason they have another bad memory.”
“Beau,” my mom says softly, “you are not a bad memory. You’re a blessing. You show up for those boys in a way most men don’t.”
“But what if?—”
“You can’t protect everyone from everything, and you don’t have to. All you can do is show up. Be honest. Be careful. And if something happens, we’ll deal with it.”
“I just—” My voice breaks. “I don’t want them to see me like that.”
She’s quiet for a long moment before she says, “They already see you for who you are. Brave, consistent, and kind. They don’t need you to be invincible. They need you to be you.”
